


Your name for my heart

by Skaelds



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And Geralt doesn't really understand what's going on, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt is a bit lost, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, in which Jaskier thrives on poor decisions, in which Valdo is a dick what a surprise, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 16:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaelds/pseuds/Skaelds
Summary: In which Jaskier's a fae who's trying to steal Geralt's name (and fall in love with him without having wanted to)- - - -“Anyway, the point is not here, thank you very much. The point is: why, oh why, dear Witcher, am I overlooked when your occasional outbursts of kindness occur?”Geralt took a sip of his ale.“You are the wordsmith.” He said flatly. “Craft your own answer.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 47





	Your name for my heart

**Author's Note:**

> I have my exams tomorrow so this is really the least appropriate moment for me to post and write something but well-I am weak😬

**Your name for my heart**

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**.**

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**“It's a fair deal after all. What's one name in the vastness of identities you can adopt when in exchange I offer you something unique? Your name for my heart?”**

**.**

**.**

**.**

It started a little bit like that.

A bet, a commitment, a game of words, and the insatiable desire for victory. The one that gnawed at the heart, rushed into the veins, ran through them like blood, and ended up pulsing slowly in the stomach - sending shivers down the skin.

The one that was said to make the blood boil in the veins, the hearts beat and the armies march to the battlefield. The one who made all beings fall in his path; elves, men, dwarves...

Fae.

Fae children, if they could be called that, did not have that many sources of amusement. Or rather, they were all drawn to the same core, the same vital center.

The names.

Names had power, and no fae had ever yet escaped the exhilaration that came with possessing one. And the children played with it, bathed in it, caught these pieces of power, and made games out of them. What was the essence of someone then became their temporary toy, exhilarating in its novelty - discarded in favor of another as soon as it faded away.

And Jaskier was no exception.

He couldn't remember his first name. At least not the first name he'd ever had. It had come instinctively, a childish smile full of teeth and an identity offered in return. Hundreds more had followed. No, he didn't remember the first name that had been given to him, presented unconsciously so that he could crush it in his palm.

But he remembered the _feeling._

It had been exhilarating. The feeling of thousands of ants running over his skin, the feeling that his skin was becoming too condensed to contain him, the rush of power felt - the ability to control. To decide. He couldn't remember what he'd done with the gift. A drowning perhaps. Or maybe he'd made him perform like a puppet before plunging him into the river, his imagination wasn't that great at the time.

And once he had ripped out his first name, it had been impossible to stop. A jump into a packed tavern, a smile - a seemingly innocent request. “May I have your name?” A reply - more harmless than the request. And his claws would close around his new victim, the rush of excitement would thrill him and the choice would become his.

Then the games came. Childish at first. Simple bets, on who could collect the most names in a given time, who could win a specific identity, who could wave his hands over the invisible strings of these puppets and twist them until the neck imitated the gesture. And it went on and on and on.

_Again and again._

Until the stakes were raised. Until Jaskier grew tired of the easy prey, of the naive humans who offered their identities as if they were gifts, unaware of the value of their offering. Until he looked for more attractive prey. The dwarves had been strangely easy to fool.

All it took was a little. Shiny clothes, a glamour that erased the sharp teeth, the bright eyes, the cruel claws. A false smile, one of those that erased the vicious, impatient glint in his eyes. Pretty words, a musical instrument.

And what had seemed like a challenge had turned out to be a terrible disappointment. They had offered him their names without thinking, convinced that the human in front of them was nothing more than that, fooled by their first impressions. Terribly disappointing. He had not even enjoyed playing with them, had faded into the shadows, leaving behind a fire to die out alone and the blood from their slit throats to water the earth.

And then, one day when he had sat in a clearing, his bare feet brushing against the flowers that had just emerged from the earth, still hesitant about their existence, Valdo Marx had sat down next to him.

At least, that was the name he had chosen to use that day. Valdo Marx had been a cursed soul, a poor innocent child who had offered his identity to the wrong person weeks earlier and a fae had immediately taken it. Some people liked to have trophies like that. Jaskier had never opted for such methods, preferring to forge his names on what pleased him.

His latest was inspired by flowers. He had sat in this clearing, his hands brushing against these fledgling flowers, and smiled, charmed by the bright color of these buttercups. And like all things that pleased him, Jaskier had cut one of those flowers, bringing it to his face before placing it behind his ear - immediately stealing his name.

Jaskier. The name sounded sweet, much more so than his previous one. Tinkled on his tongue as he tested it out loud, in a so pleasant way that he decided to keep it.

There was something easy and delightful about taking the names of immaterial things. They were available to all, no power could ever be held over them, and the idea charmed him at once. It was different and this difference filled him with a joy so intense that it could only be innocent.

But he had to go back to that day in the clearing. Valdo had sat down beside him, sitting crudely on the buttercups that had struggled so hard to bloom, and Jaskier had gritted his teeth. They had crunched against each other, a high-pitched noise - unbearable for a human ear.

But Valdo had just smiled. One of those smiles that sounded a bit like a grimace, toothy and vicious.

“You aren't playing with us anymore.” He had said, proving once again how much he liked to state the facts, to place himself in the position of confrontation. “You are bored.” 

Jaskier had merely nodded.

“I am.” And just because there was something in him that couldn't stand that condescending look the other had given him back, so contemptuous of seeing him get tired of what was their very nature, Jaskier had continued, whining. “But, they are so _easy!_ Nobody believes in us anymore; nobody fears the control we have over them. They fear other things, more real, more concrete to their _tiny_ minds. Things with bloody teeth, huge wings, a size larger than a house, and fangs ready to devour their _sheep_. But I do not fancy _sheep_ – I want a challenge. I want someone to say, “No. You may not have my name.” And I want to pursue them, to smile at them, a smile full of teeth and promise and tell them that it is only a matter of time. That I am their _inevitable demise_.”

Valdo Marx had laughed then.

A mocking laugh, dripping with incomprehension.

“Then look for this person, oh unsatisfied one. One may say you have all the time in the world.”

So he had.

_He had._

He had walked the taverns, had left for what seemed to him to be forever the fields of flowers and the honeyed presence of his fellows for the villages of humans. He had hung his lute on his back and dressed in his best clothes, his best glamour, his best smile.

And Jaskier had moved on, passed from town to town. On his way, names rained down without him deigning to take an interest in them. And he had turned his interests towards other horizons. Music, first of all, because he found it fascinating to be able to play with words without ever lying, to hear stories flowing from his lips. The humans, then, when he got tired of their names and decided to take over their bodies.

Something was fascinating about extending his control over them in a whole new way, discovering the thousand and one ways of taking it, of being offered it.

But habits died hard, and every now and then when a man got too violent, when he got too disrespectful, the bard would leave the tavern with the vicious satisfaction of having a life dancing on his fingertips. And when it was the town he was leaving, in addition to his departure, the graveyard was celebrating a new arrival.

And he had wandered. To Oxenfurt, out of boredom then curiosity then pleasure. To Prana, to Vizima, to Gulera.

To Posada.

~*~

The encounter had been quick, almost like lightning striking a house.

Jaskier had been backing away, carefully picking up the pieces of bread that had been thrown at him and shoving them into his trousers - which had no pockets, it was the last time he would go to that tailor's - when he had noticed him.

Sitting alone at the back of the tavern, his huge hands clasped around a mug of ale. And his face had lit up - almost quivering at the thought of what it implied. He'd recognized it straight away of course, the name was famous in these sorts of establishments. A witcher.

The idea was _exhilarating_ -

He'd never had a Witcher, never faced someone who knew the risks, someone who knew of the existence of his kind-

And he had rushed to him.

“I love the way you just... sit in the corner and brood.” Jaskier had teased, a shudder running through his body and the sensation of her firmly placed glamour ringing in his ears. He had held his breath, terrified and excited to see if the other would unmask him if he would leap-.

“I'm here to drink alone.”

But nothing.

And Jaskier had made his first mistake. He had been so impatient, so excited at the idea of finally meeting the longed-for challenge, the challenge that would allow him to fill that eternal dissatisfaction, that his mouth had opened without him being able to stop it, dripping with words and blurting out the name of the Witcher.

Taking away the possibility of asking him.

And then he'd followed him, his mind swarming around the possibilities he could use. There were only so many ways to link a human - strange as he was, changed as he was by mutations, Geralt of Rivia was human - to a fae. The name, for one. Being given a name allowed absolute control. For when one had, possessed the identity of another being, it was to deprive them of that which made them a being.

Then the thanks. If Jaskier could get Geralt to say the much-hated words "Thank you", he would already have a hold on his being. Weaker than if he had his name, but enough to bewitch his senses.

And the last one: the fairy ring. If he could create one, or get Geralt into one... He would be trapped forever. And only saying the famous "Thank you" or offering his name would get him out.

Jaskier had walked beside Roach, his words coming faster than his thoughts and his mind turned to other considerations. He had stopped for a second, looked at the advancing horse, and smiled - viciously, delightedly.

This was the challenge he had always sought. He was going to follow Geralt until he made a mistake, and then he was going to work at it for as long as it took. A month, a year, ten, a hundred - time was not important for an immortal fae.

But in the end, he would win. And would take great pleasure in crushing Geralt's will in his sharp claws. The idea filled him with a nervous, renewed excitement. He felt as if he was back to that old feeling, the one that had gripped him when he had stolen his first name.

But multiplied by a thousand.

~*~

And then, of course, they had gotten into trouble. Jaskier should have seen it coming in hindsight, after all, following a Witcher meant running straight into danger. But he hadn't expected to face elves.

The blow to the face took him by surprise, making him shiver with anger. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard - enough to keep his composure and control over his glamour. And perhaps because the elves were too busy arguing with Geralt, lamenting over their glorious past, not one of them caught on to his enchantment.

It was almost depressing. He had been surprised already, that the Witcher didn't give him a second glance, that he immediately swallowed this deceptive appearance. But the elves? Used to magic, to deception, to fae enchantments?

Had their people been so easily forgotten?

"If you must kill me, I am ready." Geralt was saying, without Jaskier being able to see his face. "But the Sylvan's right. Don't call me human."

Silence hung in the air for a second, Jaskier trying to twist himself to glance at the elves. They were out of his line of sight and it was driving him positively crazy- He struggled against the rope, tied roughly around his wrists, his waist, hesitating for a second before glancing menacingly at it-

Maybe if he used his teeth...

The sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath made him freeze immediately. Fuck it, he suddenly thought, leaning forward to bite the rope, pulling Geralt slightly with him - he was going to cut that rope with his teeth, screw the glamour.

Filavandrel moved closer and he bit down sharply on the rope, his sharp teeth slicing through it as easily as a fruit-And the sword fell heavily to the ground.

Jaskier stopped short, a piece of rope stuck in his mouth. He spat it out immediately, turning his head to try and see the elf.

"Was this a change of heart? Because I am absolutely in favor of this decision" he immediately chirped, freeing a wrist from the rope. "after all why would you mess up such a clean blade, she's too gorgeous to be soiled by viscous and smelly blood-"

"Not now, bard." Geralt shot back.

Another moment of silence passed, backed by the wheezing of the sick elf. Jaskier contorted himself further to try to get a glimpse of the three creatures, forcing Geralt to tilt his head uncomfortably. A grunt escaped from the Witcher's lips, but he paid no attention to it, fidgeting to finally get a glimpse of the elf king. The late elf king, at least.

"You are right" Filavandrel finally conceded. He had a curious look on his face as if he was reluctantly agreeing. "You are to be released. We- We will move, for now. But don't ever come back to us."

The complaint blasted out without him being able to help it.

"You broke my lute!" 

A grimace crossed Filavandrel's face. His features frowned, frozen forever in their immortal youth, and he waved his hand at the Sylvan. The latter immediately decamped, slipping away into the cave.

“The value of life prevails over that of your instrument, bard. Learn your priorities.” Geralt said and his heart skipped a beat. _What? Of course not, did he only know the lengths he had to go to possess this beauty?_

“Only an ignorant fool would say such a thing, witcher and you do not strike me as the type- she is no less important!” he whined, struggling with the rest of the rope with annoyance and ignoring the sigh that he got as an answer. He considered sinking his teeth into the second, but if the elf was going to release them-

No sooner had his thought been uttered than the sick elf leaned towards Geralt, blade in hand and cutting the rope sharply. The Witcher immediately jumped to his feet, massaging his wrists, and Jaskier fell forward, off-balance. He landed on his elbows, wriggling to his feet - lifted by her just as quickly.

She frowned at the gnawed rope, obviously surprised, but any words she might have said were swallowed at the sudden arrival of the Torque.

And the wonder he held in his hands -

Unable to help himself, Jaskier leaped to his feet, almost running towards the creature to snatch it out of his hands, his eyes fixed on the object. He stopped dead in front of the Sylvan, indifferent now to its appearance as his attention was focused on something of greater importance. He froze, almost hesitating, before running a finger along with the polished wood.

“A gift.” Filavandrel suddenly said. “For… the troubles and your previous lute. I hope that you will find her as satisfactory as the previous one.”

“Satisfactory?” Jaskier gasped. “She’s gorgeous!” He glanced at the Sylvan, hesitant now that the object was officially in his possession. "May I? "

The Sylvan nodded and he wasted no time in snatching it from the creature's arms, unaware that behind him Geralt was talking to the ailing elf. His fingers ran over the wood, brushing its glossy surface, and his lips stretched into a delighted smile.

Not delighted enough, however, for him not to bow slightly to Filavandrel, leaving a hesitant expression on his face.

“This is truly a great gift and I shall express to you the right amount of gratitude that you deserve. But… I am afraid I didn’t quite get your name so- May I have it?”

The elf smiled.

“I am Filavandrel aén Fidhail, bard. And my friends here are Toruviel and Torque.”

“Filavandrel aén Fidhail” he repeated, tasting the name on his tongue and clenching his teeth to avoid the inevitable shudder that came with its acquisition. He smiled in return, a bit too vicious for it to be true, and bowed once again. “A very surprising encounter, really.”

And many minutes later, when he started the third verse of his new song, Jaskier stopped for a few seconds. Geralt didn't notice or at least didn't say anything about it, still sitting on top of Roach who was moving forward.

He made sure he was at a safe distance from Geralt before muttering the three names in a low voice, his hand clutching his lute. The surge of power from the name suddenly hit him, leaving him almost panting, and he bit down on his hand to stay silent. He glanced at Geralt, but he was still moving forward, unaware of what Jaskier had undertaken.

Jaskier was not merciful, did not forgive so easily. A lute was a small price to pay for hurting them, for chaining them, and for destroying his possession. So he took a breath, acutely aware that at any moment Geralt might turn and see him, notice that something was wrong-

And he muttered the next words, releasing them in a quick breath. His fingers tightened around his instrument for a split second and he shook his head, trotting quickly to catch up with Roach.

A smile stretched his lips until it hurt.

While up in the mountains, the two elves and the Sylvan had a coughing fit so sudden that it left them panting, folded in two. And when they straightened up, the ground was stained with blood.

Faes were not to be trifled with.

~*~

Traveling with Geralt is not so bad, Jaskier thought abruptly two days later. Jaskier filled the silence enough for two, both with his songs and his incessant remarks, and Geralt was good enough company.

Good, he decided, sitting around a fire waiting for Geralt to return with their evening meal. If he was going to follow him for an undetermined amount of time, it was a good sign. After their debacle with the elves, Jaskier had decided to wait ten days.

He would stay ten days with Geralt, ten days without trying to get his name or a "thank you", ten days to be nothing but not-so-silent backup, and then he would get to work. He owed him this respite for "saving" him from the elves. And because, even if he refused to admit it, Geralt was fascinating.

Fascinating and- uh-oh, and present, he noted as he watched him come out of the trees with two birds in his hand. Pheasants if he wasn't wrong. Good taste, a bit bitter but he wasn't usually difficult. Except- Except that he would have to eat the meat cooked.

A grimace flashed on his face, fleeting but not so much that Geralt didn't notice it.

"Don't be picky. You chose to be there."

"I'm not picky!" Jaskier quickly countered, leaping to his feet to help him pluck their meal. His mind quickly turned to an excuse, choosing one of the worst. This _traitor_. "I had, uh, one of them as a pet."

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"Don't judge me! He, uhm, he was very friendly for a wild bird, with uhm- nice colors and all. Green, red, white, you know how it is with humans and their fascination for it. And nice, uhm, nice little legs, very cute for a pheasant-"

"You're welcome to starve if you don't want to eat your _pet_."

Jaskier closed his grip on the bird, shaking his head quickly as his stomach growled in protest.

"No! No, no, no. I didn't like him that much anyway, he had quite a peck more than once I thought I was going to lose a finger" he hastened to protest. "And it's unfortunately too late, my fingers have grazed his plumage and he is now mine."

"It doesn't work like that."

"In my opinion, it does. Geralt!" he whimpered when he saw that the other refused to let go of the bird. “Please?”

The Witcher finally let go of the bird with what sounded like a slight grin, causing Jaskier to stumble as his fingers closed on the bird. He frowned, thanking him nonetheless with a slight nod, and set about plucking it.

The task was done quickly, with ease and habit, and when he had finished with his, he turned to Geralt to pluck the second. But the Witcher was already sitting in front of the fire, his bird skewered to cook over it.

Quick but obviously not quick enough. Jaskier hastened to imitate the gesture, skewering the bird to cook it and coming to sit at a reasonable distance from the other.

A few seconds passed in silence.

“Quite the day, mmh? Where are we heading next? It’s been two days since the elves and we are still wandering aimlessly in the forest.” he ended up saying, his eyes glued to the birds cooking in front of them. His stomach rumbled a second time and he resumed so that the sound of his voice camouflaged that of his hunger: “As much as I love trees and stuff, at one point we’ll have to take a bath.”

“Hm.”

“A very committed reply, thank you.” Silence hung in the air for a second. Immediately broken. “Do you know the legend about the first pheasant ?” He continued when silence acted as a reply, chuckling. “It’s a funny thing. It is said that the animals did not have bright colors. That they were all declined in brown and pale shades to camouflage themselves in the forest. But the pheasant was not satisfied with this state of affairs. A very human quality if I have to give my opinion. So he went to plead the heavens, he went to ask our sweet Melitele to change its plumage, to adorn it with the most beautiful colors-”

“I know the story.” Geralt interrupted him. “He had the most beautiful voice; she took it from him in exchange for his new feathers. Fairy tales.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side, grinning.

“It's a way to shorten things. The moral is that one's eyes should not be bigger than one's belly and that favor is never unpaid. A request leads to its payment. And thus the pheasant is condemned to useless beauty, incapable of indulging in the songs that even the most ordinary birds are capable of having.”

“I don't ask of him to be able to sing, but to be nutritious.”

“Once again, one way of seeing things. And after all, I'm living proof that it's only a fable and that you can have both talent and beauty” Jaskier joked, his laugh turning into a delighted smile as he saw the almost amused snort of the other.

His stomach rumbled for the third time and he bent suddenly towards the fire to catch his bird, taking care not to burn himself as he bit into it.

The bird was not fully cooked and he gulped down the flesh, savoring the sensation of warm, metallic blood under his tongue. He licked his lips, suddenly noticing Geralt's gaze fixed on him. And his incredulous raised eyebrow.

“That was raw.”

“Beh. Not so much, and it's a myth anyway that humans can't eat raw meat. It's simply a matter of preference” he lied through another mouthful of meat, taking care that his teeth remained at a normal-human size. It was not the time to make his glamour waver.

He felt the blood dripping on his chin, warm and viscous, and quickly wiped his cheeks, reddening under the weight of Geralt's gaze.

“Oh don’t look at me like this, I was hungry! We are past that point, I think since you saw me wash my filthy feet in a river yesterday. And that, ah ah, was a far _greater_ vision of horror than a few drops of blood.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier grinned, taking another bite out of the bird, without bothering to wipe the blood from now on. It was a step forward. With a little practice, he would be able to decipher the unintelligible grunts of the other.

“Enjoy your meal Geralt.”

“Enjoy your _slaughter_.”

And when Jaskier laughed, a few drops of blood shone on his teeth.

Ten days.

This was what Geralt deserved.

~*~

Fucking fuckery of all the fucks.

Geralt was fucking _dense._

It was now day twenty-two and Jaskier was still trying to steal his name from him. Problem: he had already admitted to knowing his identity at their meeting and it was getting harder and harder to find excuses. Jaskier refused to give up and had even tried to get him to say thank you, a word that seemed to escape the Witcher's vocabulary entirely.

It was driving him crazy.

He'd been doing all the little things, all the gestures that would earn him a vocal thank you. Nothing. He could almost have thought that the Witcher simply didn't know the word, had solved this problem by thanking Geralt nearly sixty-seven times a day.

"Oh, a stone! Thank you, Geralt for getting us through this path."

"Thank you Geralt for such spirited replies to my remarks."

"Thank you for the stop by the river."

"Thank you for your reply."

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

But nothing. Not a single thank you in return, not once reciprocated. Just a nod in reply, sometimes a slight smile. Which was splendid, thank you very much, but Jaskier did not want to be paid in _smiles._

It was for this reason that when the young woman placed their beers on the table, announcing a hearty "Your beers. "And when Geralt opened his lips and replied with "Thank you", Jaskier almost choked.

“Excuse me ?” he sputtered, now frankly outraged. “Melitele’s delicious tits, what was that?”

Geralt gave him an incomprehensible look, bringing the ale to his lips.

“Politeness.”

“I know what politeness is! What _did she do_ to deserve it when all I get are noncommittal _grunts_?” he protested, casting a hateful glance at the waitress. “Is it because of the beer? A man's heart goes through his stomach?”

“Would you rather I spat in her face?”

“ _Yes!”_

At the Witcher's new incredulous eyebrow raise, he quickly caught himself, grabbing the beer to hide his face behind it. Geralt sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back on his seat. Though Jaskier did not doubt that he was perfectly alert.

He took a sip of his beer, still annoyed, his fingers twitching on the wooden table despite himself before he resumed-

“Well, no, I don’t mean it like this and you know it, you big _word-player_ but a little _gratitude_ wouldn't hurt your Witchery heart. At least as far as I know. Oh gods, does it though? Tell me, great hunter, is gratefulness fatal to you? Have we finally found the weak point of your invincible bodies?”

Geralt snorted, cracking one eye open.

“And for what should I be grateful, bard? Your incessant noise or having to save yourself at each of your problems?”

Jaskier gasped.

“You- I- _Noise?_ That was _rude_ Geralt!”

“Be used to it.”

“For the love of- And that’s exceptionally unfair of you, my problems, as you so eloquently put it, only happened once. It's can't possibly be my fault that people are so versatile, can it? One day they are all excited to say yes, the next day it is their spouse armed with a pitchfork who convinces them that they said _no_.”

“Hm.”

“Anyway, the point is not here, thank you very much. The point is: why, oh why, dear Witcher, am I overlooked when your occasional outbursts of kindness occur?”

Geralt took a sip of his ale.

“You are the wordsmith.” He said flatly. “Craft your own answer.”

“Perhaps I should!” Jaskier retorted, frowning in his ale. He took another sip of the bitter beverage, grimacing at its unpleasant taste.

Geralt didn't respond, simply draining his mug in two more gulps. He promptly wiped his mouth to dry the droplets beading on his lips before standing up, walking towards the counter.

Jaskier followed him with his eyes, sitting comfortably in his chair. He forced himself to take another sip of ale (because they had paid for it after all and he hated to waste it) before looking away. His song was starting to make some noise, or maybe the drowners Geralt had rid them of had turned out to be real pains, because this was one of the few taverns that treated the Witcher properly.

If they weren't pleasant, they had at least been polite.

Unable to help himself, his eyes returned to find Geralt standing at the counter. He removed coins from his purse and placed them on it, nimbly retrieving a key slipped in exchange. Jaskier winced - obviously he would have to pay with his own coins if he wanted a room. Perhaps his words had struck a chord after all.

He watched Geralt go upstairs, his eyes returning to his ale as the other disappeared from his field of vision. His hand tightened around his mug, scanning the tavern with his eyes. He met the eyes of a young waitress, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the tavern, and he gave her a slight smile, beckoning her to join him.

The night was too young to come and settle into an empty bed.

**~*** **~**

The days passed slowly, without any success for Jaskier.

He was beginning to go crazy, as it seemed he had tried everything. From the very subtle "Ah, Geralt, the innkeeper needs our names to obtain a room, will you give him yours?" to the even more subtle "Is thanking me really an impossible task?

And then in a strange way, he began to get used to it. Something was amusing about playing the harmless bard, something fascinating about watching the other choose his contracts and face the monsters. Jaskier had never really come face to face with one, at least in a way that required him to defend his life, and something was fascinating about seeing them up close; about being in the thick of the fight when the mythical figures from his history lessons stood before them.

They fell into a kind of routine. One where they traveled from town to town, where Geralt took on contract after contract and Jaskier's quill never stopped writing. One of the notorious advantages was the real boost to his inspiration - that had not been a lie. The words were almost dripping from between his lips, eager to get out, eager to be poured out, jostling to do so.

And without even realizing it, Jaskier stopped trying to trap Geralt.

Stopped trying to get his name back, stopped trying to scrape together a hesitant or confident "thank you" and just followed him, simply content to be in his company.

It struck him one day, when, on entering the inn where Geralt was having lunch, he offered him a gift, a simple package of hair elastics that he had spotted at the last minute. They tended to disappear at a phenomenal rate, and Jaskier had noticed that the Witcher's sullen expression deepened when he reached into his pocket and pulled it back empty; annoying strands of hair blocking his view.

“You didn’t have to get me this.” Geralt said, nevertheless recovering them with a quick movement.

“Pshh! Nonsense, this is as much a gift to you as it is to me, I was almost tired of seeing your disappointed look when you realized you had run out of them” he countered with a slight grin, advancing to sit in front of him before rolling his shoulder muscles.

“I’m awfully tensed” Jaskier complained, frowning as he tried to roll his shoulders once more. “I tell you this, Geralt, sleeping one more night on those awful rocks will leave me hunchbacked and in a terrible mood. If they refuse us a room tonight, I'm ready to _dismantle_ this inn stone by stone.”

Geralt snorted.

“Good luck with that.”

Jaskier arched an eyebrow, placing a theatrical hand on his heart. “You put my abilities in doubt?”

“I doubt any assertion of strength coming from a man who refuses to carry a weapon because it weighs too much.”

“Rude. And I’ll let you know that my will makes me capable of all miracles. Strength is only an external detail, absolutely irrelevant in my decision.”

“Hm.”

“But let's not go on and on about these subjects, even if interesting perhaps less vital than the reason of your presence here” Jaskier chirped, leaning towards him with an eyebrow movement. “So? Contract or no contract? And- _oh_ is it laurel? I'll take it, thanks _-_ ”

Without Geralt having the time to react, his hand shot towards the plate of this one to steal the laurel leaves, swallowing them just as quickly.

Geralt frowned at him, pinched his lips.

“They are not edible.”

“Hm?” Jaskier hummed, licking his lips. “Of course they are! Just because the majority refuses to do so, those dunderheads, does not mean that it is not delicious.”

“They are not edible.” Geralt insisted, eyeing him strangely. “Humans simply add them to flavor their meals.”

Jaskier let out an amused sound, lifting an eyebrow.

“And what would you know about our strange customs back in Lettenhove? If I say I like them, I do. But enough about plants, you didn’t answer me. Contract?”

Geralt continued to give him a strange look, but he said nothing more, merely raising his mug of ale to his lips with a shrug. Jaskier looked away from Geralt's plate, his stomach rumbling to remind himself to Jaskier, and turned - waving at one of the waitresses.

Her gaze met his and she blanched abruptly; then pursed her lips and moved towards them as if she had been sentenced to the gibbet.

Jaskier forced himself to smile politely as she reached them.

“Well, hello darling, one plate of your dish of the day and a mug of beer, shall we?” He glanced at the empty one Geralt had and gave the waitress another smile. “Come to think of it, two mugs will do the trick.”

She nodded nervously.

Geralt turned his head away and she swallowed, reaching forward to retrieve the empty glass. Her hands trembled around the handle but he resisted the urge to sigh, continuing to smile as she backed away, running rather than walking towards the kitchens.

A moment of silence passed between them.

Geralt straightened his face and something dark floated across it, something... gloomy. And Jaskier's teeth crunched against each other, as if eager to be free of the glamour, a strange feeling of anger twisting his stomach.

He took a breath, smiling again as he tapped his fingers on the table - as if to erase the oppressive atmosphere around them.

“So. Which kind of contract? Kikimora, vampires? No- don’t tell me, I want to guess. Please don’t say drowners, I’ve had enough of these nasty things for an entire lifetime. They don’t respect anything- what if someone’s not fond of water, mmh? Oh- I know! Is it a devil, again? Ghosts? Well, I hope it’s not ghosts, I’m not so fond of the idea of someone being dead but not so much and the line is very blurred between the barriers. Oh-oh! A mermaid? Please say it’s a mermaid. Or a siren, I’m not sure which term is the correct one. I want something… watery. Do you know how many synonyms exist with sea or destiny? And singing someone to the death? How romantic. I’m not sure if I would want to try something like that, though, I am not entirely sure it is flattering for one’s singing abilities. Is it so bad that death is the only option, or on the contrary, so delightful that the prospect of not having that same talent leads to depression and suicide?”

Geralt merely blinked at him. Something passed on his face as if he was thinking about the prospect too so that he would never have to hear Jaskier's monologues again.

Which, first, was _rude_ but two, was always better than the bitterness that passed over his face when a human was terrified in front of him.

“Garkains. Lesser vampires.”

“Ohh- thrilling! May I come?”

“No.”

Jaskier pouted.

“You always say no. We know how it is going to go- you’ll say no, I’ll say please, you’ll say some hmm that means fuck off, I’ll say I won’t be but silent backup, you’ll say some hmm that means Jaskier you’re never silent, I’ll say yes you’re right but still please, you’ll say no-“

“You can come but not too close.” Geralt interrupted him, frowning. “Or they will smell you.”

“I- are, are you saying I _stink_?” he sputtered. “I’ll let you know good sir that I’m always wearing the nicest perfume-“

His glamour took care to neutralize his natural smell, a fruity perfume, and to overcome this he bought the best fragrances from the cities they passed through.

“Your blood. Witcher’s blood is toxic for them but yours will be compelling.”

“Oh then-“

He was rudely interrupted by a dish being thrown on the table, the innkeeper giving them his best gloomy look as beer splattered near them. It splashed onto Jaskier's clothes and he gasped, stifling an expletive between his lips as his doublet soaked up the brew-

“Fuck! That’s silk, you _pig of a man_ -“ he spat venomously-

“ _Jaskier_.”

The innkeeper’s glare became more deadly. He pursed his lips, disgust and anger written all over his face.

“Eat and go. We don't want people like you here” he hissed, casting an unfriendly glance at Geralt.

His heart missed a beat with the rage that suddenly rose inside him-

“Oh so you don’t want us here but you rush to beg for help on your knees as soon as you have any problems?” Jaskier snapped, displaying his teeth in a furious sneer. He was shivering. “You refuse his presence here but as soon as there is _a monster in your village_ -“

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt warned once again, grabbing his wrist to force him to sit still. He turned to the tavern-keeper and looked him up and down, his features creased in an indistinguishable expression. “We have coin. We’ll pay.”

The innkeeper's angry expression softened a little bit at the idea and he crossed his arms on his chest, lifting his chin.

“Sixteen crowns.”

“Sixteen- _what is this inn,_ the vacation residence of a prince? Five!” Jaskier immediately retorted, still irritated.

The innkeeper sneered.

“Fourteen and that is my last offer. You won't find any other places that will allow you to stay.”

“We-“ Geralt began.

“Seven and that’s _my_ last offer. We can always leave here and let you deal with your vampires. Good luck with that, I heard they're particularly fond of the warm blood of tavern-keepers. Plenty of liters to spare.” Jaskier said, cutting off Geralt and kicking him under the table.

Geralt glared at him but Jaskier ignored him, his eyes fixed on the other man.

The innkeeper's expression darkened and he swallowed - his anger showing for the first time a flash of dread.

“Seven crowns” he finally agreed with a snarl. “For one room. We want you gone by morning.”

Jaskier bowed with a false cheer, still furious at heart.

“I am glad we reached an agreement, dear silver-tongued man. Whose name is?”

“Witold. The _coins_ now, bard.”

Jaskier grinned and took his purse out of his pocket, withdrawing the appropriate amount before placing it on the table. The man retrieved it in a quick gesture, putting down a key in return, and Jaskier bowed a second time mockingly. The man glared at him before spinning away.

A few seconds passed between him and Geralt.

“What?” Jaskier finally asked in front of the Witcher’s curious gaze. “Learning to manipulate words has other advantages than music.”

Geralt hummed and took a sip of his ale.

Jaskier sighed, reaching for his own mug of ale. He was going to get a vicious kick out of playing with the tavern-keeper, he thought. The man deserved special treatment. Maybe get him to dance a little, kiss the floor and praise the Witcher. Or maybe slowly rip his heart out, or his fingers! The fingers were always a delicious choice because when he sealed their throats, they just screamed silently and it was hilarious. It was grotesque to see them wriggling around in his grip.

Jaskier grinned almost unconsciously and Geralt gave him a strange look. He took a sip of beer to regain his composure and choked-

He coughed loudly, eyes wide as he choked and Geralt sighed before slapping him on the back.

Jaskier let out a harsh breath-

“ _Ah_ \- thanks- thank you Geralt. I almost saw my grave- I’d rather not die just after a fight with the innkeeper, it would give him far too much pleasure” he stuttered, his breathing still erratic.

Geralt gave him a slightly amused look.

“And we wouldn’t want that.”

Jaskier chuckled.

“Indeed, we wouldn’t. So, ah- what were you saying about those vampire things?”

And Geralt hummed before offering parsimonious details about the creature, Jaskier listening intently. Geralt explained clearly, stingy with details but not with important information.

And it struck him. He didn't want it to end. He didn't want it to be over so soon. So... Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he took a break. Just a little one. Nothing big at all. Just a few days he'd give Geralt before trying again...

Geralt was talking about their hunting habits and he smiled.

Yes. A very short break. No one needed to be aware of it.

**~*** **~**

The problem, Jaskier noticed a few days later after deciding to take a break from his "Possess Geralt" quest, was that he had never spent that much time with a human.

Well. Human or Witcher, the point was the same, never spent so much time with a 'non-fae person.'

And that his instincts were beginning to return in droves. He'd tried to cover it up as best he could, had even considered the idea of leaving. But all it took was one look at the Witcher, at the best challenge he'd ever had, when he'd been in his company for over a month and still hadn't wavered, to convince himself to stay.

But it was unbearable. And Jaskier was probably a thousand times more annoying than usual, his ears ringing so loudly that the silence became painful, that he had to fill it at all costs. His skin felt too small, too tight around him, too constrictive. And if he had to eat this overcooked meat for days on end, he would go mad.

So mad that he was almost certain that Geralt would eventually break down and murder him.

“ _Thou knoweth mine childbearing hips doeth not tell falsehoods (fight not); and I am beginning to observe it is no falsehood; Thine worldly attraction, thine tension; Do you see it not, child, this is perfection_ ” he sang, stroking his lute in rhythm.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Hm?”

And it was not lost to him that he stole Geralt’s best catchphrase and Jaskier chuckled, not because it was really funny but because once again the silence was pounding at his ears and he was positive they were going to _bleed_ if it stayed like this.

“You’ve been humming the same song since this morning.” Geralt said, and if his voice had intended to be neutral, a hint of exhausted annoyance still filtered within it.

“What can I say? Sometimes inspiration is fleeting but passion sets in.”

“Hm.”

A heavy smell of blood suddenly reached Jaskier’s nostrils. And every word that could have passed the barrier of his lips was immediately swallowed. He glanced sharply at Geralt, who must surely have noticed the smell but showed nothing of it.

And the tingling came back, all the more devastating. A puff of air escaped from between his lips, panting exhalation and his body shivered.

He needed it- it had been far too _long_ -

He needed an excuse, anything, but he needed it viscerally-

His body shook and he forced himself to take a slower pace, walking behind Geralt and forcing himself to remain silent, teeth clenched. A few minutes later and they came upon the end of the forest, a path that led to the village, and Jaskier jumped at the chance.

"Fuck! "He swore loudly, drawing Geralt's attention. "I dropped my pouch on the way! I will join you in the village, I'll go fetch it right back!"

And Jaskier leaped to his feet, immediately turning around and disappearing between the trees. With a flick of his arms, his lute was slung over his back as he ran towards the smell. A glance back showed him that Geralt had not followed him, that he was still advancing on Roach, and he redoubled his efforts.

Unable to resist-because it had been over a month, because he'd been dying for it for days, because his skin was burning and he was going to crack in Geralt's presence-his glamour dissolved and his steps became lighter, faster.

He followed the scent, growing stronger as he got closer. The smell became almost asphyxiating, intoxicating, and his teeth crunched against each other as his heart raced.

And when the smell became so strong that it made the blood rush to his head and he could think of nothing else, he slowed down, stopping to poke around in the bushes. Until he stopped dead in his tracks, facing a wounded deer.

Jaskier shivered for a moment, taking a step forward, intoxicated by the entrancing smell.

His control wavered - caught in his fingertips as he shook his head, suddenly realizing where he was. And it felt like a cold shower.

Had he just abandoned Geralt, coldheartedly, to run after a deer? This was completely stupid, the Witcher was going to realize that something was wrong, he was going to find out-

He forced himself to take a step back, to back away, trembling as he tried to regain control over his glamour. The illusion took hold, flickered for a second before faltering, disappearing again. He gritted his teeth, breathing erratically, closed his eyes.

Concentrated his breathing so that it became softer.

Control, he thought, _control-_

He took a breath, trembling as he focused all his attention on the glamour, to put it back. Another wobble. Once, twice-

And the deer bellowed.

An innocent sound filled with pain and anguish. A sound enough to make what little control he had regained slip away and all coherent thought escape. His breathing became even more erratic and, mind numb, he took a step forward.

His gaze met the animal's.

And he threw himself at it.

**~*** **~**

Fuck.

A simple, monosyllabic word, far from the lyrical speeches he'd learned to wield and yet terribly appropriate.

Jaskier slowly got to his feet, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth still numbing his sense of taste, and sighed, glancing at -

At what was left of the deer.

He'd have to find new clothes, he mused absently, his heart still racing as he tried to organize his thoughts. He ran his tongue over his teeth, frowning as he discovered a piece of stuck flesh - promptly dislodged it with his fingernail.

And there was the smell of blood. Geralt would be able to smell it on him from a mile away, bloody hell, even a human could smell that asphyxiating odor on him. Jaskier let out an expletive through his teeth, resigning himself to the inevitable.

It was unthinkable to return to the tavern now. It had been a stupid decision, uncontrolled and due to too many days of repressed control but- now he had to deal with the consequences. He sighed once more, wincing as his gaze fell on the deer. It had been several weeks since he had been home, but now it seemed to him that the decision had to be made.

Then he took one last look at his ruined doublet, at the blood that smeared it, brown, fragrant blood - (promptly delicious, whispered a voice that he hastened to stifle) and snapped his fingers.

The change was brutal.

Where only wild grass had grown, flattened by his boots and the deer's carcass, a circle of flowers suddenly began to bloom. Hesitantly at first, piercing the earth with relative timidity, then more confidently, raising their petals with pride and standing in a golden circle in the light.

Sorry, Geralt, he thought abruptly, their meeting would have to wait. His heart raced, nervous at what awaited him. But he had no choice, he had made a stupid decision and had to stick to it - his teeth gritted together but he took a harsh breath.

And Jaskier stepped into the circle.

Immediately his skin began to burn. Or maybe it was just an impression, just an illusion, but he felt the flames running over his skin, consuming his flesh with an unearthly ferocity. His mouth opened in a silent scream, making him fall to his knees-

The coldness of the earth might have seemed soothing, but it was not, and the contrast rekindled the flame, rekindled the pain; tears welled up in his eyes, and his hands sank into the earth, sharp claws trying to dig a way through -

But it was useless.

His knees sank deeper into the earth and he screamed - an agonized cry, suffocated by the force field around him and the earth rose, rose, rose, **_rose;_**

Until his waist was sunk into the earth, until it rose to his throat, to his mouth, suffocating him-

_And he melted into the earth._

* * *

**In the next chapter**

**Jaskier: And how do you know what's good for me??**

**Valdo: THAT'S MY OPINION!**

**Please consider leaving a review If it's worth continuing as I'm beyond nervous to post this 😭**

**(Ps: did you notice what was the song he was singing? 🤣🤣)**

**Author's Note:**

> Hola! (You may have seen this fic yesterday but well I wasn't satisfied with the shape of it, and some scenes so I deleted it and decided to do a multi-chapter thing instead of a two-shot)  
> You can find me on Tumblr @skaelds


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